


Non-Stop

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1781, F/M, Fluff, Newly weds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: Angelica had tried to warn her that her new husband’s brilliant mind was likely to make him eccentric. Eliza hadn’t given much thought to what that would mean, beyond imagining that he might take to doing peculiar experiments in his old age, like Mr. Franklin and his kite. Staying up at all hours to write letters about the state of America’s finances hadn’t ever even crossed her mind.





	

Something was tickling Eliza’s nose. She wrinkled it, hoping to drive the sensation away without having to move or open her eyes. The tickling continued. She batted weakly at the air, wanting it to stop. “Betsey,” a sing-song voice called above her.

She peeled open one eye to see Hamilton standing over her.

“There you are. I’ve been trying to wake you forever.”

She looked around the room, confused. It was still dark outside. “It’s the middle of the night,” she protested, voice slurred with sleep.

“I need help,” he said.

“I agree. You do need help,” she moaned. “What are you doing awake?”

“I can’t write anymore.”

“Then come to bed.”

“No. I need to finish this. Come help me,” he urged, tugging the blankets off of her.

“No,” she groaned, trying to get the blankets back from him. He tugged at her arm to pull her into a seated position. Leaning over, he shoved her slippers onto her feet, then he pulled her up from the bed. “I hate you.”

He pressed a kiss against her lips and grinned. “I love you, too, darling. Now, come on.”

He walked a step behind her all the way downstairs, his hands on her shoulders, herding her onward. Her eyes didn’t open all the way until she came to the staircase, where some deep-seated survival instinct overwhelmed her desire to return to sleep. She was pushed and prodded into the room he was using as his office. She slumped into the chair at his desk, and a quill was pushed into her hand. She stared at it.

“You write with it, honey,” he said with a smug little smile that he no doubt thought made him look cute. All right, it did make him look cute, she admitted grudgingly to herself. She could think he was cute and still hate him.

“Why am I writing?” she asked, trying to wake up enough to understand what was happening.

“Because I was writing all day and my hand keeps cramping up. I wanted to send this out to Mr. Morris with the post first thing,” he explained.

Eliza looked down for the first time at the mess of papers cluttering the desk. Hamilton had beautiful, flowing handwriting; the writing before her was almost unrecognizable. She looked back up at him. “See,” he insisted, gesturing to the papers. “I need help.”

“Do you want me to copy it down onto new paper?” she offered, giving in to his insanity.

“Yes, probably. But I need to finish it first.”

Eliza’s eyes widened. The stack was enormous already. “It’s not finished?”

“No,” he said simply.

She heaved a sigh and dipped the quill into the ink pot. “All right, go ahead.”

“ _These as has been already observed are only intended as outlines*_ ,” he began to dictate, pacing the floor as he spoke.

“Slow down,” she said, dragging the quill across the paper. “All right.”

He dictated for several hours, finishing his thoughts. The clock had just gone three when she signed his name sloppily at the bottom of the last page. “Can I go back to sleep, now?”

“No, now we need to recopy the first part. It’s barely legible,” he refused, looking over the earlier pages with a critical eye.

“Can’t you do that?” She was whining now, but she didn’t care.

“I’ll help. My hand feels a little better, now,” he said, as though he were reassuring her. When she continued to stare at him balefully, he added, “How about I make us some tea? A little refreshment before we continue our work?”

“I’d rather go to sleep,” she insisted.

“Tea it is,” he grinned, clapping his hands and turning on his heel.

She whimpered and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Angelica had tried to warn her that her new husband’s brilliant mind was likely to make him eccentric. Eliza hadn’t given much thought to what that would mean, beyond imagining that he might take to doing peculiar experiments in his old age, like Mr. Franklin and his kite. Staying up at all hours to write letters about the state of America’s finances hadn’t ever even crossed her mind. 

Hamilton came back a few minutes later. She heard the clink of the china being set on the desk beside her and pulled her head off of her elbow, which she’d been using as a pillow. He knelt down before her, his palms held out to her in invitation. Eliza took his hands and met his searching gaze.

“I know I’m being crazy,” he said.

“Yes.”

He laughed. “I just…I have all these ideas in my head. I feel like if I don’t put them down on paper, they’ll all float away and I’ll never find them again. Does that make any sense?”

Eliza shrugged. “Nothing you’ve said to me all night has made sense.” He frowned down at the papers. She  sighed and assured him, “I’m sure it’s fine, sweetheart. And it doesn’t need to make sense to me. If it’s important to you, than it’s important to me.”

His eyes went soft and bright as he stared up at her. “You amaze me.”

She chuckled at him.

“No, I mean it. You are just…” he trailed off, searching for a phrase. He smiled suddenly as it occurred to him. “You are the best of wives.”  

He said it with such tenderness and certainty that Eliza felt her eyes grow moist. She shook her head, scolding herself for getting overly emotional from lack of sleep. “Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. “Now, shall we finish this?”

He nodded, getting to his feet slowly and then pulling a chair over to sit beside her at the desk. “You take the first part,” he directed, handing her the first several pages. “I’ll try to clean up the middle. It shouldn’t take too much longer.”

That turned out to be an empty promise. The sun was already rising when she finished re-writing her section. Hamilton hastily shoved it on top of his part and the last section she’d written hours before. He’d barely gotten it into the envelope when he was out the door, racing to get it into the mail coach departing that morning.

Eliza dragged herself back upstairs. Her bed was still rumpled, and she gratefully pulled the blankets back over her. So, her husband was a little overenthusiastic, she considered, relaxing in to her pillows. It’s not like he was going to be dragging her out of bed every night, right?

**Author's Note:**

> *From Alexander Hamilton to Robert Morris, 30 April 1781, Founder's Online, National Archives
> 
> For anyone whose enough of a history geek to be interested, the footnotes to this letter actually break down which portions are in Eliza's handwriting. Yeah, she actually did sit up with him to help him write it :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is very much appreciated!


End file.
